


LOST: Part 1 featuring Panic! At The Disco, Green Day, The Killers, Fall Out Boy

by xxxPrettyOddxxx



Series: LOST [1]
Category: Coldplay - Fandom, Dharma Initiative - Fandom, Fall Out Boy, Green Day, Lost, My Chemical Romance, Nirvana, Panic! at the Disco, The Killers
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxxPrettyOddxxx/pseuds/xxxPrettyOddxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember Oceanic Flight 815? Of course you do. What if we replaced all the passengers on the flight with the members of Panic! At The Disco,Fall Out Boy, The Killers and Green Day? Mix in their real life jealousy and brink-of-explosion envy and it's sure to be interesting!</p>
            </blockquote>





	LOST: Part 1 featuring Panic! At The Disco, Green Day, The Killers, Fall Out Boy

Brandon’s irrational fear of flying was now ironic, albeit justified and the anxiety Pete experienced boarding this particular flight just as apt, although the glares passing between them negated any possibility of sharing their phobia.

The most irony still lay in Patrick Stump’s story, his hand, now a very fitting tribute to his unique surname, was indeed, a stump. Brendon, as usual, was just Brendon. He stood by the wreckage surveying his surroundings and sucking on an orange peel, hoping to find the suitcase containing his top hat, and hoping to God that someone, somewhere, had managed to salvage some eyeliner.

Billy Joe’s face expressed anger, something practically everyone in existence had become accustomed to, and with eyes bearing the tell tale signs of chronic eyeliner obsession, it seemed inevitable that Brendon would be the recipient of said anger.

The Fall Out! At The Disco featuring Green Day tour had finally begun, and the trip from Sydney back to L.A was the second flight of the tour. Until it had gone horribly wrong that is.

They’d been flying across the ocean on Oceanic flight 815 when the plane had begun to rattle, it’s forward movement slowed. Most of the passengers hadn’t worried, this sort of turbulence was nothing abnormal, but Brandon Flowers, who just happened to be on the same plane with his own band, The Killers, was panicking and struggling to keep it in line.

Anyone reading his mind would see, that to him, this whole trip was fraught with danger. The captain announcing the recent change in direction was not helping. Brandon knew deep down that it was irrational and the odds were against a crash, but that didn’t seem to help eradicate his fear.The only thing that could possibly be worse is if it were his birthday. Which it was, so he was entirely out of his mind with terror. Most men who like to wage war on the Emo genre aren’t the type who fear their own birthday, but the deliciously hot Brandon was not most men.

Pete Wentz on the other hand, had his own solution. Though his main suitcase may be stored under the plane, he had his carry-on and he had been smart enough to store a small quantity of Ativan. He swallowed two of the little blue pills dry, and the result was almost instant. A warm, secure cloud came over his thoughts and obscured the effects of his anxiety. He felt oddly calm, and slightly sleepy as the captain announced the need to turn around and find land as soon as possible.

Brendon Urie had long awaited the arrival of the Ativan. Sitting next to Pete, the flight had been long and tedious, also exhausting. The man seemed to be able to talk about anything and everything for inordinately long periods of time, and was clearly oblivious to any suggestion that he should cease and desist.While Brendon just wanted to shut his eyes and sleep, if even for a few moments, Pete wanted to talk, and talk, and talk some more. His best friend was awesome in small doses, but most knew to avoid spending long periods of time with him. Brendon knew the Ativan would settle Pete, and the constant rambling would slowly die off, for a while at least.

Patrick had been sitting with Tré Cool, Green Day’s drummer. He was uncertain about the drummer, with his psychotic eyes, and currently moldy hair. The drummer seemed to be high on something, or was perhaps just crazed with a permanent rage but Patrick, nervous about conversing with the oddly scary man, didn’t want to question him. He spent most of the trip in silence, wishing he hadn't asked if they'd got room for one more, and occasionally stuttering a profound answer to one of Tré’s numerous questions, questions he was more than happy to answer himself. Patrick had a few of his own, but he never quite got to asking them.

Ryan Ross’s trip was somewhat more eventful than the rest. Sitting next to Billy Joe was never a piece of cake for anyone, but Ryan was more obnoxious than most. At times, his looks were almost exceptional, but practically anytime he had an expression on his face or let his hair grow slightly too long, he was quite unattractive. Not that he knew this, he thought of himself as quite an attractive human being, at times pinning Panic! At The Disco’s success on his looks alone. The constant taking of selfies, and fixing of bangs, bagging of fangirls and editing of face makeup got on Billy Joe’s nerves, and eventually Ryan found himself experiencing the full extent of Billy’s wrath, sparing the considerably prettier face of Brendon.

“Can we just go one fucking minute without a selfie being taken? Just one fucking minute without your full-blown vanity? You are fucking like Justin Bieber!” Billy Joe’s hauntingly green eyes were filled with anger as he directed his glance solely at Ryan. The whole plane was silent as Billy Joe’s temper blew up, and not for the first time. His fist connected with Ryan’s nose, making a horrible cracking noise, and Ryan emitted a horribly feminine scream, realising he should've put have put his fucking hands up when asked.

Two flight attendants made their way toward the scene, shouting Oi Oi Oi in broad Aussie accents. Being in the air, there wasn’t a lot of options but to move Billy Joe to be seated on his own toward the tail of the plane, and ask Brandon Flowers to teach him to play Waltzing Matilda on his guitar.

Pointless, but effective.

Ryan looked absently into the distance, blood steadily dripping from his nose. His eyes didn’t appear to be focused, though tears were dribbling down his cheeks in a silent stream as he pondered the many ways this development may affect his looks.

A female flight attendant made her way over to Ross who was seated in seat 41.

 

“Sir,” She asked gently. Ryan didn’t respond. “Sir. Sir, are you okay?” She tried again for a response. His nose was bent at an unnatural angle and his face was unnaturally chubby.

It took around two minutes for Ryan to respond to the now three flight attendants surrounding him, and even then it was a simple nod. A fourth attendant showed up to clean his nose, and ask Ryan if he wanted an ambulance upon arrival at LAX.

Ryan just shook his head. He wanted a plastic surgeon.

Brandon was supposed to have Ronnie Vannuci, The Killers drummer, seated beside him, but the drummer had spent the majority of the trip in the planes toilet. Brandon was lonely, there was a lack of people to talk to. Sure, Mark and Dave were behind him, but he had to be honest, Mark was boring and Dave... Well, Dave was Dave. Not extremely talkative when his inexplicably crazy hair needed frizzing. Pete Wentz and Brendon Urie were across from them, but after the band rivalry, he doubted they’d want to converse with him. Joe Trohman and Andy Hurley were in front of him, but he found the over-tattooed drummer intimidating.

Plus, he didn’t like any of them anyway. Billy Joe and his need for ludicrous Australian folk songs, was sadly the best option available to the quirky frontman, and he was, after all, Mr Brightside. Right now, however,he would force himself to smile like he meant it for Billy Joe's sake, who, whilst not looking a thing like Jesus, had earned Brandon's quiet adulation when he was young, and he hoped nobody told him about his recent verbal attacks on him.

Spencer Smith was sleeping up toward the front of the plane. He didn’t even wake up when the plane hit turbulence. Jon Walker was right next to him.

Brendon Urie took a selfie showing a sleeping Pete Wentz behind him, a sight not seen nearly enough, right as the plane blew in half.

The last thing he heard as the plane went down was Brandon screaming, "If you can, hold on" followed by a familiar high pitched scream.

“Brendon!” The call faded as the plane went down.

Ryan’s voice.

****

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III ’s eyelids flew open after a few lethargic blinks, exposing his sweet, though somewhat troubled, brown eyes.

They opened wider in shock. The sky above him was a beautiful shade of blue, accentuated by fluffy white clouds. He was surrounded by long strands of grass and bright green bamboo. The scent of smoke filled his nostrils and lungs, and he choked out a small cough, simultaneously wondering if the plane had crashed or if Patrick's envy had finally exploded.

He slowly sat up, wincing at the pain caused by doing so. He stood, and looked in the direction of the smoke. It was then he remembered. The plane. He ran towards the wreckage.

He tripped awkwardly as the jungle gave way to beach. He could see the plane, burning away. Survivors were passed out or standing in shock. Some knelt by dead bodies. The first thing that really caught his eye was a person trapped under a piece of plane. He ran at full speed toward him.

Pinned under a heavy piece of plane was Patrick. Pete began gesticulating wildly and babbling inanely, before spotting a plump, unkempt, slightly constipated man.

“You. Yeah, you, help me lift this off him.” He called out to Ronnie. Ronnie made a groaning sound, and made his way over. Pete slipped his hands under the large, white piece of wreckage and lifted it with Ronnie’s help. Though unconscious, Patrick made a noise indicating discomfort, although to be fair it could well have been Ronnie trying to poo, but I digress. His black Clandestine Industries hoodie was torn and his stomach ripped in places. His nerdy glasses were snapped and had dug into his face, causing blood to seep slowly down his cheek like gory war paint. His one good arm was twisted awkwardly behind his back, something not entirely foreign to him if he was honest with himself.

It seemed symbolic of his habit of letting Pete twist his arm on a regular basis.

Pete threw himself to his knees beside his unresponsive friend. At first, he wasn’t sure what to do. Patrick’s stomach was worse than it had appeared at first glance. He wanted Patrick to wake up, but at the same time he didn’t, it would most definitely make it more painful. His first reaction was to panic, though this was most definitely not a disco. Pete was shaking slightly, Ativan overridden by nerves, as he removed Patrick’s hoodie and once blue shirt, exposing his bleeding torso. There was too much blood. Pete pulled his own shirt over his head and pressed it onto Trick’s stomach, trying to stop the flow. Ronnie was still watching, his face still expressing a pressing need to poo.

“Sit here with him. Hold this on his stomach, call me if he wakes up.” Ronnie knelt with yet another groan beside Patrick, and continued to press the shirt over his stomach. Before getting up to leave, Pete pulled Patricks arm gently from under him and took a look at it. It didn’t appear to be broken, which was good.

As Pete ran closer to the wreck, he brushed his sweaty fringe out of his face. He spotted Brendon Urie sitting, orange in mouth, with his slightly mangled top hat. Pete just waved slightly toward him, and ran toward a passenger who was rocking himself back and forth, curled into the fetal position, muttering about the flying plane and awaiting mountain. He didn’t seem to be injured, it was all in his head, but Pete knew that if he didn’t move, the turbine engines would very soon suck him in and and pulverize him. He just couldn't look, it was killing him.

When he realised who the passenger in question was, his desire to save him was compromised. Brandon Flowers and Pete Wentz had had their arguments in the past, and Pete wouldn’t mind teaching him a lesson in the worst kind of way. But despite the fact that the sentiment was unrequited, Pete had a slight, though well hidden, love for Brandon, which he had once tried to make something of by inviting the mopey frontman out for dinner. His invitation had been met with stony silence, and it seemed to him that Brandon was losing touch.

Privately, he almost hoped he choked.

Brandon seemed oblivious as Pete tried to lift him out of the way of the turbine, still mumbling inane crap about rattlesnakes and romance to himself. Pete struggled to get Brandon up as he shook uncontrollably.

“Brandon, please. I get it, you’re freaked out, but you’re sitting next to a spinning turbine which is going to continue to spin and slowly suck you in and... Okay, not the point. Just get up.”

The man had soul, but he was no soldier.

Brandon still seemed absent from his own body as he stood up and allowed Pete to guide him toward the beach. Unsure that he wanted Brandon near Patrick, Pete seated him by Brendon who looked slightly disgruntled by the idea.

Brandon blinked a few times, and then looked around, finally realising where he was.

“Palm trees!” He exclaimed.

“What the hell?” Brendon whispered, before having a more brilliant idea. He leant into Brandon’s ear and whispered, in a far more creepy tone, “I know what you’re doing here.”

Brandon’s reply was strange at least. “Don’t you wanna swim with me?” And Brendon wondered if he was even human.

Pete found himself rescuing people from all over the beach, at times stumbling over dead bodies. People had shrapnel buried in their skin, or broken bones, which Pete had to create makeshift slings for, he had known those white flags would come in handy. Still, the running around the beach and saving of the injured didn’t tire him, Pete wasn’t easily exhausted, and his constant, self directed narrative was soothing to the traumatised.

* * * *

Across the island, where the tail end of the plane had landed, Ryan Ross was looking at his nose in a cracked mirror, his puffy cheeks too large for the compact.Billy Joe was screaming commands at other survivors, clearly unnerved by the lack of suburbia and Crazy Haired Dave was using a knife to carve scripture references and neon tigers into a stick, one that may well have once been the cane that accompanied Brendon's top hat and overcoat. The scene wasn’t quite as chaotic as the one down on the beach, though the survivors fewer, uglier and far less talented, with the exception of Billy Joe.

Spencer Smith found himself digging through peoples luggage in hopes of a tub of ranch dressing. Since customs had seized his, along with the tax free nitroglycerine laced cigarettes he bought, he wasn’t overly optimistic, but it was worth a try.

As they, aside from Dave, drifted off to sleep that night, signal fire burning, Katy Perry lurked in the bushes, wondering when anyone would take notice of her whiny roaring. They could definitely hear her. A team of other washed up Pop stars stood behind her, watching, waiting.

Their eyes not accustomed to anything darker than their candy filled videos, they had failed to notice the still awake Dave. Katy was the first to move, reaching to grab a sleeping Ryan, and ending up with a handful of cheek. One of her cohorts, Nicki Minaj judging by the size of the butt, and penchant for obscenities, went for Spencer, unaware that Dave was standing behind her brandishing his stick. As her hand clasped around Spencer’s arm, the Jesus stick came down on her head, ruining her expensive weave. Spencer, a heavy sleeper to say the least, only awoke as the singer, if she could be called that, collapsed on top of him. Thankfully her ample boobs transformed into airbags, softening the crippling blow.

As Dave, angrier than usual, thanks to an inexplicable lack of frizz, continued to beat Nicki Minaj with his stick, Katy Perry picked up the small, unattractive figure that was Ryan and ran. Ryan tried to scream, but his voice was caught in his throat. He had the sneaking that the pretty singer only wanted him because of how gorgeous his own face was, she loved to kiss girls. The thought calmed him.

After Dave had removed Nicki’s offensive body from sight, disgruntled that his scene had turned into a god damn ass race and half scared she would rise like a demented phoenix and pursue him, he wandered down the beach to sit where the water met the sand, holding his own hand to comfort himself.

When the day met the night, all was golden in the sky, and the clouds were marching along, he was still sitting by the ocean, staring into it. Spencer came and sat beside him. Spencer was decidedly unfazed by Ryan’s kidnapping, he had never really liked the vain prick anyway. He had told Brendon from the start that Ryan was bad news, but Brendon was blinded by those passionate onstage kisses, and felt it was time to take a chance on the chipmunk like man. Spencer thanked the strange, frizzy man for saving him last night, but Dave didn’t reply. He just stared into the distance, prompting Spencer to wonder whether the spaced out man was fine, or if he was perhaps psychotically hearing voices.

Spencer tried to make conversation for a few more minutes, but he was no Pete. Eventually, he sighed and left.

Up on the edge of the jungle, Billy Joe was channelling his anger into striking two rocks together in hopes of making a fire, having broken every usable stick in the vicinity with the same lack of concern he showed his guitars. Spencer walked up the beach toward him.

Across the island, the survivors were having a somewhat more interesting time. Patrick was awake and in excruciating pain, pain that did nothing to quell his intense jealousy of Pete, whom had quickly become a hero among the survivors. While Pete worked to save every injured person in sight, aside from the usual posse of neon clad scene kids looting dead bodies for anything bright like demented magpies, Trick was stuck sitting under a palm tree unable to move on his own. The worst part was he was now joined by a slightly insane man who loved palm trees but hated his band. He had to admit that Brandon was extremely good looking and that the urge to stare was there, but that didn’t change the fact that Brandon was a very sulky, Fall Out Boy hating pouter.

Pete had saved everyone he could, and was now devoting his large store of energy to finding Hemmingway, which was proving difficult. He had chosen to believe that the dog had survived the crash and was disorientated. It didn't take much.

Aside from a suspiciously Ronnie sized poo in the jungle, he hadn’t really found any sign of the extremely adorable english bulldog.

He sat down, just for a few minutes to ponder what to do next. It was only then he realised how sore his back was. He placed his hand on the blade of his shoulder. It was wet. He pulled his hand away, only to see dark blood covering his fingers. He needed to find someone to sew it up. He dug a sewing kit out of a tossed suitcase and was good to go, though it looked like he was still on his own.

He set off down the beach in search of Brendon, who was to be found surrepticiously applying eyeliner he found in a suitcase that also contained three pairs of Converse and nothing else.

“Hey, Brendon. Can I ask a favour?” Pete grinned as he made his way toward the shirtless, tophat wearing man who he thought of as his Winona.

“Pete! Yeah, what’s up?”

“Well firstly, have you seen Hemmingway around? Secondly, you wanna sew up my shoulder?” Pete turned around to show Brendon the wound which was still pulsing out blood.

“Shit Pete! How’d you achieve that one? And nope, still missing?”

Pete shrugged and sat in front of him. He handed over a needle he had already threaded with black thread.

“How exactly do I do this? I don’t think sewing’s quite my forte.”

“You think I know? Push it gently through one side of my skin, then the other and pull, I guess. So on, so forth.” Pete laughed endearingly as he tried to explain how to sew up his own back.

Brendon wasn’t really focused as he attempted to sew the two sides together. He was wondering how the tail end passengers had fared in the crash, namingly Spencer and Ryan. Jon’s body had already been found.

He tried not to think of Ryan, realising he was under the gun as he tried to focus on reluctantly stitching Pete’s back.

The survivors built fires, and waited for rescue, eating numerous exotic fruits from the jungle, but something told Patrick that rescue was not imminent. He sat by his own little fire, reading a copy of ‘A Wrinkle In Time’ pulled from a deserted suitcase, trying to distract himself from his own troubled thoughts. Without his glasses, which had since been removed from his face, reading was slow, but there wasn’t a lot else to do considering he was immobile.

He had sat on the beach all day as Pete gave first aid to the injured, and Andy and Joe buried the dead. It was easier to read in the daylight, and as night fell, he struggled more and more.

Eventually, as stars filled the now navy sky, Pete came and sat next to Patrick.

“Hey Trick.”

“Pete.” Patrick wasn’t quite as excited as Pete.

“What’s wrong Patrick?” Pete sounded slightly concerned, as usual oblivious to the undercurrents that ran between them.

“This in general I guess. We finally get back together, finally get back on tour, and here we are, stranded on an island. I can’t see for crap, and I can’t even stand up on my own, and I’ve spent the majority of the day with Brandon Flowers, the…” His voice got slightly higher as he spoke Brandon’s name, and his cheeks flushed slightly red, but Pete seemed not to notice. “Nevermind. I just wanna go home, Pete.”

“I think that’s true of all of us. I mean, no one wants to be stuck on an uninhabited island in the middle of god-knows-where with a bunch of injured people, a crashed plane and a crazy man with a lobster suit in his luggage. Nor does anyone want to eat possibly poisonous fruits and sleep in sand being eaten alive by bugs and reading without glasses and…”

“Hey Pete? Do me a favour and shut up and go to sleep, okay?” Patrick yawned and layed down next to Pete, who was looking through his bag for his pills.

“Alright Trick, night.”

Patrick made an unintelligible noise that might have been ‘Goodnight, travel well" and was asleep in moments.

Pete lay there staring at the night sky, barely registering that the moon didn't look quite right, even though Brendon could clearly be heard telling it not to fall down. There was no way he was going to sleep tonight, sleep was elusive under normal circumstances. Brendon might still be awake, and he felt certain Brandon would be but he didn’t want to leave Patrick. He knew Patrick’s envy was festering and that some of Patrick’s more psychotic, homicidal songs were directed somewhat, if not solely at him, but Pete didn’t really care. He’d always thought of Patrick as a little brother, right from the Take This To Your Grave days. Patrick was six years younger than Pete, and at times a lot more mature, but whilst Pete was quite open with his problems, Patrick was a little more awkward about it. He was more comfortable with himself now that he ever had been before, but he was still Patrick, and his self esteem matched his troubled thoughts. Throughout the hiatus, he hadn’t seen a lot of Patrick. Things had gotten awkward before the breakup, and they both knew they needed a break. They had both gone and done their different things, Pete his new band, The Black Cards, and Patrick his solo album. Pete had missed him, but this was one situation that he just couldn't charm his way out of.

Brendon had been left with Tre Cool for the night, who was secretly itching to slap his pretty little face. Brendon, like most, found Tre’s psychotic demeanour rather intimidating. It was understandable, the guys eyes alone were enough to make you want to run into the jungle.

He couldn’t sleep for fear of being murdered in his sleep by the man snoring loudly beside him. How he wished his Ry-Ry were here instead. He ended up sitting on the sand in a cloud of annoying insects wondering absently if he should ask Tre to do something to entice Brandon into keeping his mouth shut. The man was making enemies left right and centre.

Just as he started to again sing his wishes to the moon in vain, a crashing noise came from the jungle. In the dim light cast by the moon, he could see the jungles canopy distorting as trees fell, snapped, and were flung in random directions.

He knew most of the survivors were on the beach, but Pete and Patrick were sleeping under trees in the jungle with an attention starved Katy Perry making it no easy feat.

For God's sake, the girl was up and then down, in and then out. Only last Friday night, he had witnessed her getting kicked out of a bar, after which she hit the boulevard incurring the wrath of Billy Joe, who had been relishing a long walk alone.

He ran toward Patrick’s fire, and found Pete still awake.

Pete looked up.

“Brendon! Help.”

Brendon looked down at Patrick, who had had the dubious pleasure of waking up next to Katy. The setting, however, was no honeymoon.

“He can’t get up, we gotta get him outta here.” Pete was already trying to lift Trick off the ground, but he couldn’t get up.

“I can still talk for myself, Pete. My brains only as dysfunctional as it was before. Brendon, do you mind giving me a hand?” Patrick rolled his eyes as he spoke Pete’s name. Brendon resisted the urge to laugh. Pete had always been the cute one, everyone knew that, but Patrick had always felt that while he didn't have the right looks or the right name, he had twice the heart, so was bitter about it. What Patrick didn’t quite see was that Pete had always cared about Patrick. Luckily, Pete had always been oblivious too.

Patrick slipped one arm around Brendon’s shoulders, which were covered by a red jacket which went well with his top hat and he felt better about the chances of everything going according to plan when he saw his friends black slacks with accentuating off white pinstripes.

He placed his other arm around Pete’s shoulders which were covered by his Youngbloods hoodie.

Both Brendon and Pete stood up, taking Patrick with them. They tried to move toward the beach with some pace, but even though Patrick was smaller now than he had once been, it was hard to carry him over rough ground lined with fallen branches, and the incessant roaring of a Katy Perry cheated out of her prey made the going even harder.

They managed to lift him as far as Brandon’s camp, which consisted of a phantom fire that Brandon was obviously convinced was real and the man himself in a jacket that appeared to have rats on the shoulders. They lowered him down carefully, shielding his eyes from the fire in case there were real flames. He wouldn't handle that in his fragile state.

Brandon just stared at Patrick for two minutes. Everyone was just waiting for him to say something crazy. They weren’t disappointed.

“Is this guy the dream maker?” He asked, voice filled with a vain hope that it might be Patrick's fault he was mad.

Pete and Brendon just laughed, the guy was crazy. Brendon whispered to Pete “Not his fault he’s a maniac.” This was followed by more hysterical laughter.

“No, Brandon. It’s me, Patrick. We sat together earlier, remember?” Patrick asked gently. He knew the man was too far gone to remember, that realistically they had been alone together but didn’t make a point of saying so. Brendon and Pete were holding back snorts, before leaving Mr Brightside with Mr Benzedrine.

“Pete, maybe there’s a wheelchair somewhere in the wreck. We should really take a look.” Brendon sounded excited.

“Have you forgotten he only has one hand so he wouldn’t be able to push himself. We’d have to take him everywhere!” Pete grinned, his teeth visible in the dark.

They went to have a look anyway, it was still easier than carrying him.

They knew everything was going according to plan when they found a usable wheelchair, and as usual, they had the pinstripes to thank.

Pete suggested taking a joyride in the wheelchair down in the sand dunes in the dark.

“Won’t your songs know about it though?” Brendon replied.

“I think we’re fine, they’re a bit busy intercepting wishes at the moment, you'd be surprised how often they miss their mark."

Pete got in first, and Brendon gave him a big push. The wheelchair went rolling down the sandy hills, and at the edge of one, flew through the air and tipped. Pete was the new face of failure.

Brendon wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. 

“I wanna turn!” He sprinted down the beach to Pete, whose mouth was full of sand, but he was grinning madly.

Brendon picked up the wheelchair and ran back to the top of the hill. He got in, and rolled himself slightly forward. The dunes did the rest. He was screaming with joy, and adrenaline until the wheelchair hit Pete’s feet, and again tipped. Brendon flew through the air, landing on his face. The chair landed on top of him.

He flicked sand out of his glorious brown hair, and spat some from his mouth. “Well, I reinvented the wheel, and ran myself over.” He mumbled. Pete was still snorting.

“At least you faced that one with some poise and rationality, Bren.”

They both got up and carried the wheelchair back towards Brandon and Patrick’s camp.

They were going to show their find to Patrick, and tell him about the ride down the hills, but they didn’t get the chance. As they approached the campsite, they saw Patrick gently holding Brandon, who was running his fingers through Patrick’s hair. Pete just stood in shock. It wasn’t a big thing, it may mean nothing, but it still surprised him and he still didn’t know how to react.

Pete turned around and walked away, leaving Brendon standing there with the wheelchair.

He walked right into the jungle in the dark, not wanting to talk to anyone.

Someone walked by somewhere up ahead. Pete wasn’t sure if they had really been there, it wouldn’t been the first time he had seen things.

“Hey, who’s out there?” Nobody replied.

He kept heading in the general direction of the person that may or may not exist.

“Hello?” Pete called. “Who’s out there?”

Maybe it had all been in his mind.

He sat on a stump for a few moments, but it was too much of a reminder. He just kept walking.

Pete tried to think clearly. All he had seen was them hugging. Unusual, but it might mean nothing. Was it the hug, or the stroking of hair? Was he jealous of Brandon or Patrick?

He wasn’t sure. He just knew that seeing them together disconcerted him. He sat on a fallen log somewhere in the jungle for what felt like forever before hearing whispers from the forest. His heart was beating faster, faster. He cringed as the source of the whispers came closers.

“Pete? Oh there you are!” Brendon whispered. Pete sighed. Of course, Brendon was always whispering, a creepy habit that gave Pete the shits if he was honest.

“Brendon.” Pete sounded depressed, which may have been a big overreaction, but Brendon understood.

“Pete, I don’t really know what to say to make you feel better. If you love him let him go really isn’t gospel, and doesn't help the situation at all. But, which is it? Brandon or Patrick?” Brendon was quiet, almost whispering.

“Brandon.”


End file.
